Irving Stone, Volker Kaminski, Natalia Ginzburg, Jacques de Lacretelle, Gavrila Derzjavin, Béatrix Beck, Arthur Laurents, Owen Wister, Willard Motley


De Amerikaanse schrijver Irving Stone werd geboren op 14 juli 1903 in San Francisco. Zie ook alle tags voor Irving Stone op dit blog.

Uit:Lust for Life

“He did not know how much time passed. He got up, ripped the canvas off the frame, threw it into a corner, and put on a new one. He mixed some paints, sat down, and began work. One starts with a hopeless struggle to follow nature, and everything goes wrong; one ends by calmly creating from one’s palette, and nature agrees with it and follows. On croit que j’imagine—ce n’est pas vrai—je me souviens. It was just as Pietersen had told him in Brussels; he had been too close to his models. He had not been able to get a perspective. He had been pouring himself into the mould of nature; now he poured nature into the mould of himself. He painted the whole thing in the colour of a good, dusty, unpeeled potato. There was the dirty, linen table cloth, the smoky wall, the lamp hanging down from the rough rafters, Stien serving her father with steamed potatoes, the mother pouring the black coffee, the brother lifting a cup to his lips, and on all their faces the calm, patient acceptance of the eternal order of things. The sun rose and a bit of light peered into the storeroom window. Vincent got up from his stool. He felt perfectly calm and peaceful. The twelve days’ excitement was gone. He looked at his work. It reeked of bacon, smoke, and potato steam. He smiled. He had painted his Angelus. He had captured that which does not pass in that which passes. The Brabant peasant would never die.”

“The fields that push up the corn, and the water that rushes down the ravine, the juice of the grape, and the life of a man as it flows past him, are all one and the same thing. The sole unity in life is the unity of rhythm. A rhythm to which we all dance; men, apples, ravines, ploughed fields, carts among the corn, houses, horses, and the sun. The stuff that is in you, Gauguin, will pound through a grape tomorrow, because you and the grape are one. When I paint a peasant labouring in the field, I want people to feel the peasant flowing down into the soil, just as the corn does, and the soil flowing up into the peasant. I want them to feel the sun pouring into the peasant, into the field, the corn, the plough, and the horses, just as they all pour back into the sun. When you begin to feel the universal rhythm in which everything on earth moves, you begin to understand life….”


Irving Stone (14 juli 1903 – 26 augustus 1989)

Lees meer...


Arthur Laurents, Owen Wister, Béatrix Beck, Willard Motley


De Amerikaanse schrijver, scenarioschrijver en regisseur Arthur Laurents is geboren in New York op 14 Juli 1918. Zie ook alle tags voor Arthur Laurents op dit blog.


Uit: West Side Story


A-RAB: Great Daddy-O!

RIFF: so everybody dress up sweet and sharp and  meet Tony and me at ten.


Oh, when the Jets fall in at the cornball dance

We'll be the sweetest dressin' gang in pants!

And when the chicks dig us in our Jet black ties,

They're gonna flip, gonna flop, gonna drop like  flies!

(They dance together a little wild )

RIFF: Hey, Cool! Easy. Sweet. See ya. And walk tall!

(He runs off)

A-RAB: We always walk tall!

BABY JOHN: We're Jets!

ACTION: The greatest!


When you're a Jet

You're the top cat in town

You're the gold-medal kid

With the heavyweight crown!


When you're a Jet

You're the swingingest thing

Little boy, you're a man

Little man, you're a king





Arthur Laurents (14 juli 1918 - 5 mei 2011)

Scene uit de film West Side Story” uit 1961

Lees meer...


Arthur Laurents, Owen Wister, Béatrix Beck, Willard Motley, Joshua Ferris, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie


De Amerikaanse schrijver, scenarioschrijver en regisseur Arthur Laurents is geboren in New York op 14 Juli 1918. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2009 en ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2010. Arthur Laurents is op 5 mei jongstleden op de leeftijd van 94 jaar overleden.


Uit: West Side Story


“SNOWBOY: What about the day we clobbered the Emeralds?
A-RAB: Which we couldn't have done without Tony.
BABY JOHN: He saved my ever-lovin' neck!
RIFF: Right! He's always come through for us and he will now.

When you're a Jet,
You're a Jet all the way
From your first cigarette
To your last dyin' day.

When you're a Jet,
If the spit hits the fan,
You got brothers around,
You're a family man!

You're never alone,
You're never disconnected!
You're home with your own:
When company's expected,
You're well protected!

Then you are set
With a capital J,
Which you'll never forget
Till they cart you away.
When you're a Jet,
You stay a Jet!

(spoken) I know Tony like I know me. I guarantee you can count him in.

ACTION: In, out, let's get crackin'.
A-RAB: Where you gonna find Bernardo?
RIFF: At the dance tonight at the gym.
BIG DEAL: But the gym's neutral territory.
RIFF: (innocently) I'm gonna make nice there! I'm only gonna challenge him.”



Arthur Laurents (14 juli 1918 - 5 mei 2011)

Lees meer...


Irving Stone, Natalia Ginzburg, Jacques de Lacretelle, Gavrila Derzjavin, Arthur Laurents, Owen Wister, Béatrix Beck, Willard Motley, Kerstin Preiwuß, Rainer Stolz



Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 14e juli mijn blog bij seniorennet.be:



Irving Stone, Natalia Ginzburg, Jacques de Lacretelle, Gavrila Derzjavin, Arthur Laurents



Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 14e juli ook bij seniorennet.be mijn vorige blog van vandaag:.



Owen Wister, Béatrix Beck, Willard Motley, Kerstin Preiwuß, Rainer Stolz


Irving Stone, Natalia Ginzburg, Jacques de Lacretelle, Gavrila Derzjavin, Arthur Laurents, Owen Wister, Béatrix Beck, Willard Motley, Steffen Popp, Kerstin Preiwuß

De Amerikaanse schrijver Irving Stone werd geboren op 14 juli 1903 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.


Uit: The Agony and the Ecstasy


„He began with the Deluge, a large panel toward the entrance of the chapel. By March he had the cartoon blown up and ready to be transferred to the ceiling. Winter had not released its grip on Rome. The Sistine was bitterly cold. A hundred braziers could not heat its lowest areas. He wore his warm wool stockings, brache and shirt.

Rosselli, who had left for Orvieto for a profitable commission, had trained Michi in the mixing of the plaster and the method of applying it. Michelangelo helped him carry the sacks of lime, sand and pozzolana, volcanic tufa dust, up the steep wall ladders to the top of the scaffolding. Here Michi made his mix. Michelangelo was dissatisfied with the tawny color caused by the pozzolana, adding more lime and ground marble. He and Michi then climbed the series of three receding platforms that Rosselli had built so that they could plaster and paint the top of the rolling vault. Michi laid an area of intonaco, then held the cartoon.

Michelangelo used the stick, charcoal bag, red ochre for connecting lines. Michi descended, set to work grinding colors below. Michelangelo was now on his top platform, sixty feet above the floor. He had been thirteen when he stood for the first time on the scaffolding in Santa Maria Novella, alone on a peak above the chapel and the world. Now he was thirty-four, and now, as then, he suffered vertigo. The Sistine seemed so hollow from up here, with his head just one foot below the ceiling. He smelled the wet plaster, the pungence of his freshly ground paints.

He turned from his view of the marble floor, picked up a brush, squeezed it between the fingers and

thumb of his left hand, remembering that he would have to keep his colors liquid this early in the

morning. . . .“





Irving Stone (14 juli 1903 – 26 augustus 1989)







De Italiaanse schrijfster Natalia Ginzburg werd geboren op 14 juli 1916 in Palermo. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2006 en ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2008.


Uit: Human Relationships (Vertaald door Dick Davis)


“In that brief moment we found a point of equilibrium for our wavering life: and it seemed to us that we could always rediscover that secret moment and find there the words for our vocation, the words for our neighbour; that we could look at our neighbour with a gaze that would always be just and free, not the timid or contemptuous gaze of someone who whenever he is with his neighbour always asks himself if he is his master or his servant. All our life we have only known how to be masters and servants: but in that secret moment of ours, in our moment of perfect equilibrium, we have realized that there is no real authority or servitude on the earth. And so it is that now as we turn to that secret moment we look at others to see whether they have lived through an identical moment, or whether they are still far away from it; it is this that we have to know. It is the highest moment in the life of a human being, and it is necessary that we stand with others whose eyes are fixed on the highest moment of their destiny





Natalia Ginzburg (14 juli 1916 – 7 oktober 1991)







De Franse schrijver en letterkundige Jacques de Lacretelle werd geboren in Cormatin (Saône-et-Loire) op  14 juli 1888. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2008.


Uit: Le Retour de Silbermann


« Tout ce qu’on m’apprendra, disait-il, je le sais déjà. Ce que je ne sais pas, c’est comment on gagne de l’argent. »
C’est ainsi qu’il se mit tout de suite aux affaires avec un zèle un peu inexpérimenté que l’oncle Joshua avait dû ralentir à plus d’une reprise. Il avait voulu être initié en même temps à toutes les branches de sa profession. Dès qu’il entendait parler, dans le bureau, d’une vente ou d’un achat possible, il se proposait pour conclure le marché. « Laissez-moi aller voir, oncle Joshua, laissez-moi traiter. »
- Naturellement, me dit son cousin, mon père, qui avait mis trente ans à faire sa fortune, ne lui confiait rien d’important, et il se moquait parfois de l’impétuosité de David.“





Jacques de Lacretelle (14 juli 1888 – 2 januari 1985)







De Russische dichter Gavrila Romanovitsj Derzjavin werd geboren in Kazan op 14 juli 1743. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2008.



The Storm

As my bark in restless ocean
  Mounts its rough and foaming hills,
Whilst its waves in dark commotion
  Pass me, hope my bosom fills.

Who, when warring clouds are gleaming,
  Quenches the destructive spark?
Say what hand, where safety's beaming,
  Guides through rocks my little bark?

Thou Creator! all o'erseeing,
  In this scene preserv'st me dread,
Thou, without whose word decreeing
  Not a hair falls from my head.

Thou in life hast doubly blest me,
  All my soul to thee's revealed,
Thou amongst the great hast placed me,
  Be midst them my guide and shield!




Vertaald door William D. Lewis






Gavrila Derzjavin (14 juli 1743 - 20 juli 1816)

Monument voor Derzjavin in Kazan






De Amerikaanse schrijver, scenarioschrijver en regisseur Arthur Laurents is geboren in New York op 14 Juli 1918. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.


Uit: My Good Name


HARRY: Not in their class. Either class. You think they went down because they're outsiders. I think because they were greedy. I wasn't greedy, Rachel. I simply wanted to live well. I wanted to be sure that you and I and your child and my childr - child lived well. We do. We have everything we need and a bit more. But we don't live in the land of Ferraris. I was neither gaudy nor greedy. When they caught up with me, what did they catch? Good name, good clubs, a personable, affable asset to be counted on and no threat to anyone. A gentleman. That's an old fashioned concept, so they don't say it. But they think it, and what they think is: you can believe him. In the case of the Feds: you can believe his testimony. That's why they gave me the choice. I could help them and get immunity or I could be sent to jail. Why should I go to jail? What good would it do anyone if I went to jail? You and Becca would have to give up this room. Why should you? Why should I?

RACHEL: (After a moment.) This is ridiculous. I feel like I'm hyperventilating.

HARRY: Take some slow deep breaths.

RACHEL: I'm not hyperventilating. This is ridiculous! You know what it is? I know what it is. Everything in my head is jammed. all circuits closed down. I had it once before. Years ago, before you. Even before Becca. I was trying to get away from Mickey and wound up back-packing through Europe with him. In Paris, I spoke French - from college. In Madrid, Spanish - from high school. By the time we got to Italy, I had stopped thinking in English and was translating from either Spanish or French into Italian in the present tense. Until one night, in a bar in Positano. Out of season, just before Easter - the Buca di Bacco! I can see the carving over the door. all the languages seemed jammed in my head and I couldn't speak anything for ten minutes. Nothing, not one word, not even English for ten minutes. The next day, I flew home alone. But Becca was already underway.”





Arthur Laurents (New York, 14 Juli 1918)








De Amerikaanse schrijver Owen Wister werd geboren op 14 juli 1860 in  Germantown, Pennsylvania. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.


Uit: Red men and white (Little Big Horn Medicine)


“Something new was happening among the Crow Indians. A young pretender had appeared in the tribe. What this might lead to was unknown alike to white man and to red; but the old Crow chiefs discussed it in their councils, and the soldiers at Fort Custer, and the civilians at the agency twelve miles up the river, and all the white settlers in the valley discussed it also. Lieutenants Stirling and Haines, of the First Cavalry, were speculating upon it as they rode one afternoon.

“Can’t tell about Indians,” said Stirling. “But I think the Crows are too reasonable to go on the war-path.”

“Reasonable!” said Haines. He was young, and new to Indians.

“Just so. Until you come to his superstitions, the Indian can reason as straight as you or I. He’s perfectly logical.”

“Logical!” echoed Haines again. He held the regulation Eastern view that the Indian knows nothing but the three blind appetites.

“You’d know better,” remarked Stirling, “if you’d been fighting ’em for fifteen years. They’re as shrewd as Æsop’s fables.”

Just then two Indians appeared round a bluff—one [Pg 4]old and shabby, the other young and very gaudy—riding side by side.

“That’s Cheschapah,” said Stirling. “That’s the agitator in all his feathers. His father, you see, dresses more conservatively.”

The feathered dandy now did a singular thing. He galloped towards the two officers almost as if to bear them down, and, steering much too close, flashed by yelling, amid a clatter of gravel.

“Nice manners,” commented Haines. “Seems to have a chip on his shoulder.”

But Stirling looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he muttered, “he has a chip.”





Owen Wister (14 juli 1860 – 21 juli 1938)



De Franse schrijfster van Belgische origine Béatrix Beck werd geboren in Villars-sur-Ollon op 14 juli 1914. Zij was de dochter van de Belgische dichter Christian Beck uit Verviers, die van Lets-Italiaanse afkomst was. Haar moeder was Ierse. Na haar rechtenstudie werd zij communiste en trouwde met de statenloze Jood, Naun Szapiro, die in de tweede wereldoorlog overleed. Na verschillende andere jobs werd zij secretaresse van André Gide, die haar aanmoedigde om over haar ervaringen te schrijven, zoals de zelfmoord van haar moeder, de oorlog, de armoede, enz. In 1955 werd zij Franse. De schrijfster kreeg in 1952 de Goncourtprijs voor Léon Morin, prêtre. Het boek omvat de dialoog tussen een oorlogsweduwe van een communistische Jood en een priester tijdens de bezetting. De roman werd nog beroemder door de verfilming in 1961 door Jean-Pierre Melville, met Jean-Paul Belmondo en Emmanuelle Riva.

Uit: Une

"- Pourquoi son geste vous a-t-il fait souffrir moralement ?

- C’était insolite, anormal, inavouable, pas du tout comme les exaltantes bagarres avec les garçons. Avant, à peine, savais-je que j’avais des seins (le mot m’est pénible à prononcer). J’ai d’abord cru avoir deux grains de beauté, curieusement symétriques, mais ils se sont développés et j’ai à peu près compris qu’il s’agissait d’un phénomène naturel.

- Et plus tard ?

- Suis tombée des nues en apprenant qu’ils pouvaient jouer un rôle dans les rapports sexuels. J’ai lu autrefois un récit où l’héroïne, atteinte d’un cancer, avait subi l’ablation des deux seins. Je l’enviais presque. Les Amazones, au moins, n’en avaient qu’un.

- Cette asymétrie ne vous gênait pas ?

- Le bouclier rétablissait l’équilibre. Adolescente, j’ai écrit : “L’embryon rêve au creux de l’amazone. Le nouveau-né s’abreuve à l’unique sein de l’amazone.”"


Béatrix Beck (14 juli 1914 - 30 november 2008)


De Amerikaanse schrijver Willard Frances Motley werd geboren op 14 juli 1909 in Chicago. Hij thematiseerde in zijn sociaalkritische romans de slums van zijn geboortestad. Zijn eerste roman Knock on Any Door verscheen in 1947. Het boek werd goed ontvangen door de kritiek en er werden binnen drie weken 47.000 exemplaren van verkocht. Hoofdpersoon in het boek is Nick Romano, een jongen die opgroeit in de sloppen van de wereldstad Chicago. Ondanks zijn in wezen goed hart komt hij als slachtoffer van zijn milieu op pad der misdaad. Een weg die hij gedoemd is om te volgen

Uit: Knock On Any Door

“Tony pulled the rubberband from his fingers and threw it on the floor. It landed in the aisle, halfway between Tony and Nick. Nick reached out with his foot, remembering that Tony would be expelled. His toe barely reached it, the rubberband was stubborn and jelly-like beneath his toe as he tried to pull it under his desk. He stepped over and picked it up, palming it quickly. As he straightened Father Scott’s bony fingers closed on his collar.

‘Did you do that?’ It was an accusation.  Y-y-yes Father.’


Willard Motley (14 juli 1909 – 15 maart 1965)


Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:


De Duitse dichter en schrijver Steffen Popp werd geboren in 1978 in Greifswald. Hij groeide op in Dresden en volgde daar bijzonder natuurwetenschappelijk onderwijs. Hij studeerde aan het Literaturinstitut Leipzig en daarna kiteratuur en filosofie in Berlijn. In 2004 verscheen zijn bundel Wie Alpen en in 2008 volgde de bundel Kolonie Zur Sonne. Zijn roman Ohrenberg oder der Weg dorthin werd in 2006 genomineerd voor de Deutsche Buchpreis. Samen met Uljana Wolf vertaalde hij gedichten van de Amerikaan Christian Hawkey, die 2008 verschenen onder de titel "Reisen in Ziegengeschwindigkeit".


Uit: Ohrenberg oder der Weg dorthin


“Ein schwaches Licht, das ihn hier noch erreicht, auf seinem Turm, im Eis: ein abgebrochener Jesuit, glatzköpfig, mit Bart, der, wenn er Holz einschlägt, mit Gott redet - einfach nur in diesen Schlägen, begreift er in diesem Moment, gegen das wimmernde Holz, rede ich wahrhaft mit Gott. Einmal dabei, will Ohrenberg weitere Gedanken zur Situation anfügen, Wahrheiten aussprechen, die seine Existenzleistung in dem Gebirge hier direkt betreffen - die Heizung seines Turms im Angesicht einer Welt, die mit der Sonne warm wird, die Bewältigung des lebendigen Augenblicks zwischen den Gegenständen - aber dann treibt ihn ein Anfall von Hunger von seinem Sitz: erst sucht er Schokolade auf dem Tisch, durchwühlt verschiedene Ablagen, dann gibt er auf, steigt aus dem astronomischen Kabinett in die Küche ab. Schwache Re¿exe in der Kühlschranktür, Ohrenberg klappt seinen Kiefer auf: keine Bewegung ist zu erkennen, Ohrenberg klappt seinen Kiefer wieder zu, betastet seinen Schädel - der Leninkomplex ist abgeheilt, lediglich Kopfschmerzen sind ihm geblieben. Graf Ohrenbergs physiognomische Bestandsaufnahme, vor der Tür seines Kühlschranks, Bilanz, nun ja, des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts, das alles - ist zu vernachlässigen, im Hinblick auf den vereisten Innenraum, der leer ihn anstarrt. Ein aussichtsloses Unterfangen, hier irgendwelche Lebensmittel aufspüren zu wollen - auch unten im Dorf, Ohrenberg schaut auf seine Uhr: alle Verkaufsstellen haben geschlossen. Alle Verkaufsstellen, seit über zwanzig Jahren, geschlossen:”





Steffen Popp  (Greifswald, 1978 )






De Duitse dichteres en schrijfster Kerstin Preiwuß werd geboren in 1980 in Lübz en groeide op in Plau am See en Rostock. Zij studeerde filosofie en psychologie in Leipzig en Aix-en-Provence. Zij publiceerde o.a. in DIE ZEIT“, „F.A.Z.“, „Neue Rundschau“ , „plumbum. In 2006 verscheen haar eerste dichtbundel „nachricht von neuen sternen“. Sinds 2007 schrijft zij kitieken voor het tijdschrift EDIT.



später sommer


der see ist heute ganz verwaist

und wie benommen

legt die schwalbe ihre federn an,

das geht so herztonnah

wie es begann


mag sein

heut steht der hecht in seinem grund

und nach dem regen läuft der aal,

es kann die rohrdommel am ufer sein


frau spinne

leih sie mir ihr netz,

hab mich verloren im mückentanz,

die schwalben beschließen den sommer






Kerstin Preiwuß (Lübz, 1980)



Natalia Ginzburg, Jacques de Lacretelle, Gavrila Derzjavin, Irving Stone, Arthur Laurents, Owen Wister

De Italiaanse schrijfster Natalia Ginzburg werd geboren op 14 juli 1916 in Palermo. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2006 en ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.


Uit: So ist es gewesen (Vertaald door Maja Pflug)


Ich habe zu ihm gesagt: »Sag mir die Wahrheit«, und er hat gesagt: »Welche Wahrheit? « und zeichnete rasch etwas in seinen Notizblock. Er hat es mir hinterher gezeigt, es war ein langer, langer Zug mit einer großen schwarzen Rauchwolke, und er beugte sich aus dem Zugfenster und winkte mit dem Taschentuch.
Ich habe ihm in die Augen geschossen.
Er hatte mich gebeten, ihm eine Thermosflasche für die Reise fertig zu machen. Ich bin in die Küche gegangen und habe Tee gekocht, Milch und Zucker dazugetan und ihn in die Thermosflasche gefüllt, dann habe ich den Becher fest zugeschraubt und bin ins Arbeitszimmer zurückgegangen. Da hat er mir die Zeichnung gezeigt, und ich habe den Revolver aus seiner Schreibtischschublade genommen und auf ihn geschossen. Ich habe ihm in die Augen geschossen.
Aber ich dachte schon sehr lange, daß ich ihm früher oder später etwas antun würde.
Dann habe ich mir Regenmantel und Handschuhe angezogen und bin gegangen. Ich habe in der Bar einen Kaffee getrunken und bin aufs Geratewohl durch die Stadt gelaufen. Der Tag war recht kühl, und es wehte ein leichter Wind, der nach Regen schmeckte. In den Anlagen habe ich mich auf eine Bank gesetzt, die Handschuhe abgestreift und meine Hände betrachtet. Ich habe den Ehering abgenommen und eingesteckt.
Vier Jahre lang waren wir Mann und Frau. Er sagte mir, daß er mich verlassen wollte, doch dann starb unsere Tochter, und deshalb blieben wir zusammen. Er wollte, daß wir noch ein Kind bekommen, das würde mir guttun, meinte er, so schliefen wir oft zusammen in der letzten Zeit. Aber es gelang uns nicht, noch ein Kind zu bekommen.
Ich kam dazu, wie er Koffer packte, und fragte ihn, wo er hinführe. Er sagte, er führe nach Rom, um mit einem Rechtsanwalt über einen bestimmten Fall zu entscheiden. Ich könnte zu meinen Eltern gehen, dann wäre ich nicht allein zu Haus, solange er fort sei. Er wisse nicht genau, wann er aus Rom zurückkäme, in vierzehn Tagen, in einer Woche, er wisse es nicht. Ich dachte, er käme vielleicht überhaupt nicht wieder. Also habe ich auch Koffer gepackt. Er sagte, ich solle ein paar Romane zum Lesen mitnehmen, damit ich mich nicht langweile. Ich habe den »Jahrmarkt der Eitelkeiten« und zwei Bücher von Galsworthy aus dem Regal genommen und in meinen Koffer gelegt.
Ich habe gesagt: »Alberto, sag mir die Wahrheit«, und er hat erwidert: »Welche Wahrheit«, und ich habe gesagt: »Ihr fahrt zusammen weg«, und er hat gesagt: »Wer, zusammen? « Und hinzugefugt: »Du phantasierst immer herum und verzehrst dich innerlich, indem du dir dauernd schreckliche Sachen vorstellst, und so hast du keine Ruhe und läßt auch den anderen keine Ruhe. «
Er hat zu mir gesagt: »Nimm den Bus, der um zwei in Maona ankommt«, und ich habe geantwortet: »Ja. «
Er hat zum Himmel geschaut und zu mir gesagt: »Am besten ziehst du den Regenmantel und die Gummistiefel an. «
Ich habe gesagt: »Es ist mir lieber, ich weiß die Wahrheit, wie auch immer«, und er hat zu lachen angefangen und gesagt:


Verità va cercando, ch’è si cara,
Come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta.
(Die Wahrheit sucht er, die so teuer, wie der weiß, der für sie sein Leben opfert.)“




Natalia Ginzburg (14 juli 1916 – 7 oktober 1991)







De Franse schrijver en letterkundige Jacques de Lacretelle werd geboren in Cormatin (Saône-et-Loire) op  14 juli 1888. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.


Uit: La Bonifas


« Assurément, cette vieille fille, qui n’avait éprouvé aucun bouleversement sensuel et qui traînait après soi des désirs et des dégoûts de vierge, jugeait, en raisonnant de la sorte, d’après son cas. Toutefois, bien des romanciers ont tendance à faire passer leurs personnages d’une case dans une autre, comme si les époques successives de la vie humaine, enfance, adolescence, âge mûr, étaient analogues aux états tout différents par lesquels passe un insecte. En fait, ces solutions de continuité sont fausses ; il n’est rien qui ne soit inclus en nous dès l’origine ; les transformations de notre nature sont plus spécieuses que réelles ; et, lorsque dans une œuvre de fiction on étudie tout au long un caractère, ce n’est point une habileté d’artiste mais bien une vérité psychologique que de montrer la trame permanente de ce caractère et d’exploiter dans une large mesure le pressentiment. »





Jacques de Lacretelle (14 juli 1888 – 2 januari 1985)




De Russische dichter Gavrila Romanovitsj Derzjavin werd geboren in Kazan op 14 juli 1743. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.



 Time’s river


Time's river in its rushing current
Sweeps all the human deeds away,
And fills an abyss of oblivion
With nations, kingdoms and their kings,
But if there is something remaining
In sounds of lyre or trumpet's air,
Will enter the Eternal gullet -
And will not flee the common Fate.





O Thou, who's infinite in space,
Alive in ever-moving matter,
Eternal in the flow of time,
God faceless, with a trinity of faces!
Soul unified and omnipresent,
Who needs no place or reason,
Whom none can ever comprehend,
Whose being permeates all things,
Encompassing, creating, guarding,
Thou, called by us God.

Although a great mind might contrive
To fix the ocean's depths,
To count the sands, the rays of stars,
Thou can't be summed or fixed!
Enlightened souls who have emerged
From your creative light
Cannot begin to grasp your ways:
Our thought alone aspires to thee,
But in your magnitude is lost,
A moment in eternity.

From depths eternal thou invoked
Primordial substances of chaos
Within thine very self thou birthed
Eternity before all time.
And before time from thine self alone
Thou shinest forth within thyself.
All light originates in thee.
Creating all with but a single word
And reaching forth in new creation,
Thou wast, thou art, and thou will ever be!

Thou incarnate the chain of life,
Thou nourish and sustain it.
Thou joinest starts with ends.
Thou bringest life to all through death.
New suns are born from thee
In flowing streams of sparks.
As on a clear and freezing day,
A hoarfrost dusting shines,
And floats, and churns and sparkles,
As do the stars beneath thy vault.

A multitude of shining spheres
Floats off into infinity.
They all fulfill thy laws,
And cast their vivifying rays.
But all these brilliant lanterns-
This mass of glowing crystal-
This roiling crowd of golden waves-
These burning elements-
Or all these gleaming worlds as one-
Compare to thee like night to day.

Compared to thee the earthly realm
Is like a droplet in the sea.
What is this universe I see?
And what am I, compared to thee?
If, in this airy sea, I wish
To multiply a million worlds
By other worlds a hundred times-
Then venture to compare the sum to thee,
All this would be a tiny speck;
So I, compared to thee, am naught.

I'm Naught! But thou shinest through me
With all the splendor of your virtue;
Thou showest yourself through me
Like sun inside a tiny water drop.
I'm Naught! But still I can feel life,
Like something hungering I fly,
I'm always soaring high above.
To be with you is my soul's wish,
It contemplates, reflects and thinks:
If I exist-thou art as well.

Thou art! As nature's order shows,
My heart affirms the same to me,
My reason's sure of it:
Tho art-And I'm no longer naught!
A fraction of the universe's whole,
It seems that I repose in nature's
Critical center where you started
With the creation of corporeal beasts,
And ended with the heav'nly spirits:
Through me, you fused the chain of life.

I am the link of all existing worlds,
I am the outer brink of matter,
I am the focal point of living things,
I am the starting place of the divine;
Although my flesh rots into ash,
My mind commands the thunderbolts,
I'm king-I'm slave - I'm worm-I'm God!
But though I am miraculous,
Whence did I come?-that no one knows.
I could not by myself have risen.

Creator, I am your invention!
I am a creature of your wisdom.
O, source of life, bestower of blessings,
My soul and king!
According to your iron laws
My self eternal must needs pass
Across the borne of death;
My spirit's clothed in mortal garb
And I return through death alone,-
To your eternity - O, father!-

Thou art inscrutable, transcendent!
I understand that all my soul's
Imaginings are powerless
Your shadow to describe;
But when thou must be glorified
To pay such tribute we frail men
One course alone can follow.
We venture upwards to thy realm,
To lose ourselves in thy vast otherness
And shed our tears of gratitude.



Gavrila Derzjavin (14 juli 1743 - 20 juli 1816)







De Amerikaanse schrijver Irving Stone werd geboren op 14 juli 1903 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.


Uit: Der Schöpfung wunderbare Wege (Vertaald door Willy Thaler)


Er stand vor seinem Rasiertisch aus Mahagoni und rührte mit dem Rasierpinsel in der weißen Rasierschale mit den blauen

Blumen, goss heißes Wasser aus einem Kupferkrug hinzu, seifte sein hellhäutiges Gesicht ein und klappte sein scharf

geschliffenes Rasiermesser mit dem Ebenholzgriff auf.

Für den zweiundzwanzigjährigen Charles Darwin war das Rasieren eine angenehme, wenig schwierige Aufgabe, denn

er trug seinen rötlich braunen Backenbart bis zum Kinn. Er brauchte also nur seine rosa Wangen und das runde Kinn zu

rasieren. Seine roten Lippen waren recht kurz geraten im Vergleich zu der Größe seiner braunen, purpurgesprenkelten

Augen, die alles beobachteten und registrierten.

Er säuberte sein Gesicht vom Seifenschaum, nahm zwei Bürsten mit silbernem Rücken und scheitelte sein langes karottenrotes Haar sorgfältig, sodass es fast sein ganzes rechtes Ohr bedeckte, dann bürstete er den übrigen dichten Schopf quer über seinen großen Kopf, bis er in einem eleganten Schwung über sein linkes Ohr fi el. Er nahm ein frisches weißes Hemd aus der Kommode aus Nussholz, knöpfte den gestärkten weißen Kragen zu, dessen Spitzen seinen Bart umrahmten, legte eine dunkelbraune Krawatte um den hohen Kragen und band eine große Schleife. Gewöhnlich rasierte er sich, wenn er am Morgen aufstand, aber er hatte den Tag auf dem Severn im Familienruderboot mit Fischen und Sammeln verbracht und das Ankleiden bis zu dem Zeitpunkt hinausgeschoben, an dem er Professor Adam Sedgwick empfangen sollte.





Irving Stone (14 juli 1903 – 26 augustus 1989)







Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2007.


De Amerikaanse schrijver, scenarioschrijver en regisseur Arthur Laurents is geboren in New York op 14 Juli 1918.

De Amerikaanse schrijver Owen Wister werd geboren op 14 juli 1860 in  Germantown, Pennsylvania.


Jacques de Lacretelle, Natalia Ginzburg, Gavrila Derzjavin, Arthur Laurents, Irving Stone, Owen Wister

De Franse schrijver en letterkundige Jacques de Lacretelle werd geboren in Cormatin (Saône-et-Loire) op  14 juli 1888. Lacretelles vader was consul en de jonge Lacretelle reisde daardoor meer door de wereld dan zijn leeftijdgenoten: op zijn achtste bijvoorbeeld verhuisde het gezin naar Alexandrië. Vader overleed in 1898. Jacques de Lacretelle was een ziekelijk kind en groeide op tot een a-typische Fransman; hij had een meer dan gemiddelde lengte en een afkeer van het christendom. Van zijn moeder erfde hij zijn belangstelling voor de natuur. Het gezin verkeerde in literaire kringen (nazaten van Victor Hugo). Hij werd opgeleid voor een financiële carrière, maar reisde liever wat door Europa. Na een ontmoeting met Marcel Proust begon hij te werken aan zijn eerste roman.
De Lacretelle debuteerde in 1920 met La vie inquiète de Jean Hermelin en in 1922 won hij de Prix Femina met de roman over een joodse intellectueel: Silbermann. In 1936 werd hij lid van de Académie française.
Zijn succes als schrijver tussen de twee wereldoorlogen was te danken aan zijn psychologische romans, waarvan door Albert Thibaudet is gezegd dat ze lijken op het werk van Proust en Gide, maar dan door Flaubert herschreven. Een voorbeeld is de cyclus Les hauts ponts (1932-1935) over een vrouw die het voorvaderlijk huis probeert terug te krijgen, wat haar uiteindelijk lukt, zij het voor zeer korte tijd, aangezien het verkocht moet worden om de schulden van haar zoon te kunnen afbetalen.


Uit: Silbermann (1922)


A Houlgate, pendant le mois d'août, poursuivit-il à voix moins haute, j'ai fait beaucoup de tennis. Mais, là-bas, c'était moins agréable parce que - il fit une moue - il y avait trop de Juifs... Sur la plage, au casino, partout, on ne rencontrait que ça. Mon oncle Marc n'a pas voulu y rester trois jours. Tiens, celui-là y était. Il s'appele Silbermann.
En disant ces mots, il m'avait désigné un garçon qui se tenait à la porte de la classe, en tête des rangs, et que je ne me rappelais pas avoir aperçu division de quatrième. Il était petit et d'extérieur chétif.
Sa figure, que je vis bien car il se retournait et parlait à ses voisins, était très formée, mais assez laide, avec des pommettes saillantes et un menton aigu. Le teint était pâle, tirant sur
le jaune; les yeux et les sourcils étaient noirs, les lèvres charnues et d'une couleur fraîche.
Ses gestes étaient très vifs et captivaient l'attention. Lorsque, avec une mimique que l'on ne pouvait s'empêcher de suivre, il s'adressait à ses voisins, ses pupilles semblaient sauter sur l'un et puis sur l'autre. L'ensemble éveillait l'idée d'une précocité étrange; il me fit songer aux petis prodiges qui exécutent des tours dans les cirques. J'eus peine à détacher de lui
mon regard ».



Jacques de Lacretelle

(14 juli 1888 – 2 januari 1985)


De Italiaanse schrijfster Natalia Ginzburg werd geboren op 14 juli 1916 in Palermo. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juli 2006

Uit:  A Place to Live and Other Selected Essays

‘In October of 1944 I came to Rome to find work. My husband had died the previous winter. In Rome there was a publishing house where he had worked for years. The publisher was away in Switzerland at the time, but the firm had resumed business right after the liberation of Rome, and I thought that if I asked, they would give me a job. The prospect of asking was burdensome, however, because I thought they would be hiring me out of pity, as I was a widow with children to support. I would have liked someone to give me a job without knowing me, on the basis of my skills. The trouble was that I had no skills.

I had brooded over all this during the months of the German occupation, which I spent in the country, in Tuscany, with my children. The war had passed through there, followed by the usual silent aftermath, until finally, in the quiet countryside and the villages thrown into turmoil, the Americans arrived. We moved to Florence, where I left the children with my parents and went on to Rome.

I wanted to work because I had no money. True, if I had remained with my parents I could have managed. But the idea of being supported by my parents was also very burdensome, and besides, I wanted to make a home for myself and my children again. We hadn’t had a place of our own for a long time.

During those last months of the war, we lived with relatives and friends, or in convents and hotels.

Driving to Rome in a car that stalled every halfhour, I dallied with fantasies of adventurous jobs, such as being a governess or covering crime for a newspaper. The major obstacle to my career plans was the fact that I didn’t know how to do anything.”





Natalia Ginzburg
(14 juli 1916 – 7 oktober 1991)


De Russische dichter Gavrila Romanovitsj Derzjavin werd geboren in Kazan op 14 juli 1743. Hij wordt algemeen beschouwd als de grootste Russische dichter uit de periode voor Aleksandr Poesjkin. Derzjavin was van eenvoudige komaf, maar wist met zijn gedichten de gunst te winnen van Catharina de Grote. In 1784 werd hij benoemd tot gouverneur van Olonets en in 1785 werd hij gouverneur van Tambov. Hij werd persoonlijk secretaris van Catharina in 1791, president van de Handelskamer in 1794 en minister van Justitie in 1802. In 1803 ging hij met pensioen en bracht hij de rest van zijn leven door op zijn landgoed in Tsvanka bij Novgorod, waar hij zich volledig aan het schrijven van verzen wijdde.



To my heart


Why, poor heart, so ceaseless languish?

  Why with such distresses smart?

Nought alleviates thy anguish,

  What afflicts thee so, poor heart?


Heart, I comprehend not wrongly,

  Thou a captive art confest,

Near Eliza thou beat'st strongly

  As thou'dst leap into her breast.


Since 'tis so then, little throbber,

  You and I, alas! must part,

I'd not be thy comfort's robber;

  To her I'll resign thee, heart.


Yet the maid in compensation

  Must her own bestow on me,

And with such remuneration

  Never shall I grieve for thee.


But should she, thy sorrows spurning,

  This exchange, poor heart, deny,

Then I'll bear thee, heart, though mourning,

  From her far and hasty fly.


But, alas! no pain assuaging,

  That would but increase thy grief;

If kind Death still not its raging,

  Granting thee a kind relief.

Vertaald door William D. Lewis
Gavrila Derzjavin (14 juli 1743 - 20 juli 1816)



De Amerikaanse schrijver, scenarioschrijver en regisseur Arthur Laurents is geboren

in New York op 14 Juli 1918. Zijn eerste internationale succes was Home of

the Brave (1945), dat bijna in ieder land opgevoerd werd en waarvan ook een film

gemaakt is. West Side Story (1957) was zijn eerste musical, maar er zouden er

nog verschillende volgen waarvoor hij het scenario schreef en/of de regie voerde:

Gypsy (1959) Invitation to a March (1960), I Can Get It for You Wholesale (1962)

In 2000 verschenen zijn memoires Original Story By.


Uit: Original Story By


“It's the stuff of dreams. The audience is on its feet calling "Author! Author!" my

mother is calling "Arthur! Arthur!" my father's eyes are wet and a handsome young

actor has flown in from the Coast to share the night with me. My father wouldn't want

me to see the tears any more than I'd want him to see the actor.

The producer, all smiles, is Humpty-Dumpty in a brown suit. By now, I know it's

his good suit. He motions me forward to the stage. My feet tell me I am walking

down the aisle; I feel a fireman boost me up on the stage. I can see the actors

behind me applauding but can't hear them. I'm unsure whether the moon is out or

not but I know it has to be. I turn from the actors and look out front. I don't see

anyone. Not my father, not my mother, not my actor. I hear no cheering, I see no

audience, just a big black hole of silence. I turn to the wings and say to the stage

manager, "Bring in the curtain, Jimmy."

It was Jimmy Gelb who told me about the moon the day of our first preview and

he was a Marxist like the producer, the director and half the cast. Stop worrying

whether my play was good enough to be a hit, he commanded. Success in the

theatre had little to do with merit; what it really depended on was the moon. If the

moon was out, we were in; if it wasn't, we weren't."



Arthur Laurents (New York, 14 Juli 1918)



De Amerikaanse schrijver Irving Stone werd geboren op 14 juli 1903 in San

Francisco. Hij is vooral bekend geworden door zijn biografische romans over

beroemde personen. Zijn bekendste werk is wellicht Lust for Life over Vincent

van Gogh uit 1934, in 1956 verfilmd met Kirk Douglas.. Adversary in the House

gaat over de vakbondsman en politicus Eugene V. Debs.


Uit: Adversary in the House


“That night when he left the tent he saw a man trail him back to town.  When he

went into the restaurant for supper, the man waited outside.  When he went up to

his hotel the man kept a few steps behind him, his hand in his coat pocket.  Gene

closed the door of his room and locked it behind him, but he could feel the

presence immediately outside.  He flung the door open and cried:
     "Why do you follow me?  Surely I have never done you any harm."
     The gunman released his hold of the revolver and stood staring at Gene with

his mouth open.
     "Oh, Mr. Debs, I am no thug.  I heard the company's private police say they

were going to shoot you, so I appointed myself your bodyguard.  No one is going

to shoot you while I'm around."
     The climax to the years of civil war cam when former Governor Steunenberg

of Idaho, who had been charged with anti-labor violence during his

administration, was murdered by the explosion of a bomb attached to the gate

of his house.  The man who had set the bomb, Harry Orchard, was a lifelong

criminal; he was arrested, held incommunicado in jail, and then placed in the

hands of the Pinkerton Agency, which provided strikebreakers and mine police. 

As a result of Orchard's deal with the Pinkertons, Charles Moyer, William Haywood

and George Pettibone, officers of the Western Federation of Miners, were arrested

in Denver, kidnapped by the police of Idaho without extradition papers, locked in

murderers' row in the state penitentiary in Boise, and charged with conspiracy to

murder ex-Governor Steunenberg.

The news reached Gene while he was in his office in Terre Haute.  He had long

been specially attached to the Western Federation of Miners because it had bolted

from the conservative American Federation of Labor and formed the first industrial

union since his own American Railway Union had been destoyed.”



Irving Stone (14 juli 1903 – 26 augustus 1989)



De Amerikaanse schrijver Owen Wister werd geboren op 14 juli 1860 in

Germantown, Pennsylvania. Zijn beroemdste roman is The Virginian,

die beschouwd word als de eerste Amerikaanse western.


Uit: The Virginian


“Some notable sight was drawing the passengers, both men and women, to the

window; and therefore I rose and crossed the car to see what it was. I saw near the

track an enclosure, and round it some laughing men, and inside it some whirling

dust, and amid the dust some horses, plunging, huddling, and dodging. They were

cow ponies in a corral, and one of them would not be caught, no matter who threw

the rope. We had plenty of time to watch this sport, for our train had stopped that

the engine might take water at the tank before it pulled us up beside the station

platform of Medicine Bow. We were also six hours late, and starving for

entertainment. The pony in the corral was wise, and rapid of limb. Have you seen

a skilful boxer watch his antagonist with a quiet, incessant eye? Such an eye as

this did the pony keep upon whatever man took the rope. The man might pretend

to look at the weather, which was fine; or he might affect earnest conversation with

a bystander: it was bootless. The pony saw through it. No feint hoodwinked him.

This animal was thoroughly a man of the world.  His undistracted eye stayed fixed

upon the dissembling foe, and the gravity of his horse-expression made the matter

one of high comedy. Then the rope would sail out at him, but he was already

elsewhere; and if horses laugh, gayety must have abounded in that corral.”



Owen Wister (14 juli 1860 – 21 juli 1938)